A bit of France off the coast of Canada. The islands of St. Pierre, Miquelon and Langlade are rich with anomalies, not the least being their status as France’s last foothold in North America. A hermit of Langlade off the coast of Miquelon island rich with mysteries, not the least being his status as Langlade’s last human inhabitant of this soon to be uninhabited island of France’s last foothold in North America. Not much is known of this individual, but with our application of creative non-fiction, let’s fill in the blanks.

Where to begin? The mouth hell, shall we? The waters between Miquelon (Michael) and Langlade (a corruption of “l’île à l’Anglais” or Englishman’s Island) are called Gueule d’Enfer (Mouth of Hell). More than 600 shipwrecks have been recorded in this point since 1800. Half-wild horses, the survivors of earlier ship wrecks, graze on the grassy hillocks. The accidental equine tourists or Langlade, are joined by the intentional residents – white-tailed deer, brought over from Canada in the 1950’s. These fully-wild forest cattle have proliferated in the thick brush and stunted spruce forests. I’ve described how the largest of the four-legged creature of Langlade arrived. How the bi-pedals? That’s where creative non-fiction comes in.

According to the 1999 census, Langlade Island was almost deserted. Only one inhabitant. Langlade’s sole year-round inhabitant being Charles Lafitte. That’s it. Census data is sparse and anecdotal info curt, but the imagination can inveigle what’s missing. We know how the birds and the bees and horses and the deer got here. How did Charles la light here? And wh why does he stay? Perhaps, he prefers the anonymity of the near permanent fog to the exposure to the madding crowd. Or, more likely, a woman put him here (if he were to explain).

Assuming old Charles is no horse whisperer, who does he talk to when no one is listening? Mr. Lafitte has dogs. Those dogs surely accompany him in all kinds of weather, whether it be meteorological, psychological, or philosophical. The gods didn’t burden canines with the curse of mood. When a man locks his wife and his dog in the trunk of his car, when he lets them out, he always knows which one will be glad to see him. What kind of dogs were they?

If it were me, because my own experience with dogs, they would be Turkish shepherds. I love the hilarity of dachshunds, but the eventuality of back issues and totality of their uselessness would prohibit them from being companions at my hermitage. The beauty and power of the German shepherd appeals greatly to my esthetic appetite, but in a starvation scenario I might appeal to those great big teeth she has. No, give the soft mouth and hard bark of an Anatolian mix. Enough Pyr (Great Pyrenees) in her takes the lion out of Anatolian. Or Akbash (white face) mix, cousin to the Anatolian (Karabash = black face). You can’t beat having two companions, one of which you always know will be there, the other you never know where she is. But, the most curious thing about Charles Lafitte is not his chance to be a hermit or his choice of canine companions, but his nickname.

The hermit Charles Lafitte, at some point, acquired the moniker “de Gaulle”. I doubt that this name stuck simply because he is French. I would have thought Napoleon would have better suited for a superficial and derisive reference. I guess having the first name Charles would be a good start towards the application of “de Gaulle”. Seems too easy. Maybe he had a big nose. Well, come on, a Frenchman with big nose…doesn’t that go with the territory? Possibly, it disparagingly likens Mr. Lafitte’s estrangement to man as a distant comparison to Charles de Gaulle’s government in exile as a resistance to the Nazi occupation of France in WWII. If Charles’ isolation was known to be connected to some criminal connection, I imagine he would be known as “Jean” Lafitte, you know, like the 19th century pirate. If a woman sent him to Langlade, I might call him Charles “Defeat”. If he was simply a mad man, how about “Chucky”.

I could go on, but interest is probably waning for you the reader and the morning sun is waxing for me.

P.S. Charles Lafitte passed away in July of 2006…just before the road on the isthmus between Miquelon and Langlade opened to traffic.

P.P.S. I researched Charles de Gaulle and was reminded that the french general led the government in EXILE against the Vichy Government. This explains Charles LaFitte’s nickname.

Last week, four blond, blue eyed, fare skinned people sat in the a medical clinic waiting room. One would guess these people were related based on the physical characteristics. I was one of them. Heck, I thought, we could have been related except… The other three, all children, took up all of the other chairs in the room. The youngest, a boy, sat sideways with feet on a second chair and a ballcap on a third. The oldest, a teen girl, sat on two chairs with a windbreaker on another and a purse on a fourth. The middle child, a gangly boy, laid across three chairs, his boat like shoes snaked through the armrest of a fourth and his handheld video game extending under the armrest of a fifth. It occurred to me, who raised these kids?

I heard the staff behind the window complaining loudly about these discourteous folks. I agreed but ignored it. Don’t meddle. The voices I heard were clearly meant to alert the rude guests to straighten up and act properly in public. Several times a clinician poked a head through the window and glared out. To no avail. I thought, they wantsomeone to be embarrassed.

Eventually, the female of the group stood, grabbed her stuff and walked through the patient entrance. The youngest boy hurriedly followed with his stuff and was whining about being left behind. The gangly boy, who was left behind, sensed the absence of his family at some point and went to the window to ask where his sister and brother went. I wondered, where are the parents?

The woman, confronted by the deserted boy, instead looked out the window at me, puzzled, and asked, “He’s not yours?”

Last Thursday, I came into the house after plowing the garden. Lunch smoked and sizzled and simmered and my wife said accented things. With her soft little hands and insistent invitation, she coaxed me to sit and eat. I seldom knew what she said but I usually knew what she meant. Sated from an unusually satisfying meal, I headed out. To the couch. For a sit and a snore (this she will tell you). Leaving my worries in the pasture, I began counting sheep.

Later, I heard honking. Insistent. Not like the geese but like a birch trumpet poorly played. Sounds emanating from other than goose. The far front gate beckoned me. Ha. I recognized the iron. The trapezoidal grill. An old foreign relic. Scandinavian, maybe. Feeling hurried, slipping on my clogs, I trundled out to the rumpus. An old acquaintance stood stiff, adding oil to the gas tank. I lurched forward to stop his craziness. Then halted. Oh, yeah, it’s a three cylinder and requires oil in the gas.

The man turned and frightened me with a smile. His familiar face featured a fresh scar, cheek to chin and across his mouth. Speaking slurred, showing only a partial tongue, he either greeted me or cursed me. No, it sounded more like he’s selling me peaches. My well-developed translation skills served me well, despite his alternately pointing and poking a walking cane – at the road and then at my head. I didn’t know what he said but I knew what he meant: Let’s go for a ride.

Scooting in, I wrestled with the frayed shoulder seat belt, finally latching the rusted relic – just in time! As we sped off, I figured I’d feel sorry for this ride later, but I felt safe for now. Even with my window open, there was a foul small. Like swamp. Like a flood vehicle? Was this new car smell from wherever and whenever they manufactured this foreign object?

This fella’s reckless reputation filled my memory. Not for long. Something jolted my inquiring mind back into the present moment. Veering off road and off-roading in a farm pasture. Freewheeling downhill toward a farmer’s stock pond. Several feet from the pond, tires skidded. Wheels stopped. Engine off. Column shifter in gear (now days we have an emergency break). The car pointed down… heading toward the pond. My battle-scarred driver got out without comment. Wobbled across the cow pasture. Sat on a tree stump. What next?

I pushed down on the seat belt latch. I couldn’t figure out any of this mystery auto’s contraptions. My angry elbow hit the column shifter, popping the car into neutral. Tires started to roll. I pushed again at the belt latch. Jerked and yelled for help. My former friend sat agape. Tongue partially tied. In a moment of clarity, I looked down. I saw the decal on the glove box – SAAB. That’s it, I knew it!

I cried noisily, making loud, convulsive gasps. Suddenly, a soft hand reached through the moving open window. The little fingers lifted the latch, freeing me. The delicate hand shook my right shoulder. Then the other hand slapped my left cheek. I heard a far-off voice calling my name. I couldn’t understand the last word. But I knew what it meant:

This past weekend my wife and I went out to dinner with another couple. I asked the guy if he was a native Houstonian (my standard ice breaker question). My friend answered, “Let me tell you about my granddaddy.”

Born up in Nacogdoches. The youngest boy. His eldest brother had married a girl and moved up to Muleshoe. In the Panhandle. Some while after the brother’s move, his wife killed him. My granddaddy’s granddaddy bought a gun. He gave that gun to his young grandson, my granddaddy, and admonished him, “You take this gun and you go up to Muleshoe and shoot that woman”. That grandson, my granddaddy, bought a train ticket to Farwell, and said his goodbyes.

Farwell, Muleshoe’s closest neighboring town, provided the boy with a wealth of information about his older brother. Many people knew of him. Some people feared him. More than a few hated him. He labored at the rail yard about one day a week. He got drunk every day of the week. And he beat his wife. And his kids.

Farewell – This boy didn’t travel to this one-horse s***hole to mourn his brother. But to avenge him. He hopped a freight train headed for Amarillo and jumped off at the Muleshoe junction. He inquired. He walked hesitantly toward his destination. He stopped…watched a rail thin woman carrying wash from perhaps a hand dug well to her rain filled stock tank. She saw him. She dropped her wash into the rinse tub. The well’s ferrous sediments bleeding out into the clear water. At close range…he spoke.

He (ashamed): I’m…

She (relieved): I know…

Neither had any illusions about what would happen next.

She recounted her drunken husband’s cruelty. The wind died. Dead calm. The low prairie grass. The insistent trill of a distant sand crane. Rare moisture in drops… washed out along the creases of swollen eyes. Profuse perspiration in rivulets… stained young, ruddy cheeks. Congealed mucus… in the breathing of two snot nosed kids. His brother’s. His niece and nephew. Squatting. Curious. Feeling protected in the dying shade between that tarpaper shack and off-kilter outhouse.

He noticed a tool laying atop a wooden barrel. Its umbra attempting to hide an irregular stain. The hammer. Visitor to the crime. He imagined those nails. Three cut nails. Accomplice to the passion. He envisioned them protruding from his brother’s resistant skull. This last thought, sobered him to his purpose. The young assassin’s hand recoiled as flesh touched revolver. Each chamber held a fate. Four smooth bullets.

Fare. You can’t go home. Not after this. Not after murder and vengeance and cowardice. It’s not deeds of family that haunt. It’s deeds you choose. My granddaddy traded a near-new gun for a fare to Houston.

When the Egyptian farmers completed harvesting their corn, they used to cry and pretend to be a grief-stricken. This was done to mislead the spirits of which they believed lived in the corn. The farmers had the fear that the spirits might become angry when they cut down the corn on which the spirits used to live.

Hops Festival:
The month of February and March is the time for the harvesting of Hops. Hops are dried in kilns, bleached with sulphur dioxide and pressed into bales. About 90% of Australia’s hops are used for making beer.

Nubaigai is the harvest festival held in Lithuania. In Lithuania, the Thanksgiving tradition involves the creation of a Boba which is then wrapped around the worker who bound the last sheaf.

The harvest wreath is then carried in a plate covered with a white linen cloth. As the procession moves on, people who reaped sing an old song which represents how they rescued the crop from a huge bison that tried to devour it.

1963 – U.S. President Kennedy was assassinated while riding in a motorcade in Dallas, TX. Texas Governor John B. Connally was also seriously wounded. Vice-President Lyndon B. Johnson was inaugurated as the 36th U.S. President.

The story began in 1614 when a band of English explorers sailed home to England with a ship full of Patuxet Indians bound for slavery. They left behind smallpox which virtually wiped out those who had escaped. By the time the Pilgrims arrived in Massachusetts Bay they found only one living Patuxet Indian, a man named Squanto who had survived slavery in England and knew their language. He taught them to grow corn and to fish, and negotiated a peace treaty between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag Nation. At the end of their first year, the Pilgrims held a great feast honoring Squanto and the Wampanoags.

If you are really thankful, what do you do? You share. W. Clement Stone

5 Ways to Talk to Your Pro-Trump Family on Thanksgiving

1) Arm yourself with facts, but convey emotion with personal stories.

2) Ask open-ended questions and listen to their responses.

3) If they’re misinformed, question their sources.

4) Channel your inner Hillary.

5) Don’t argue to win.

What is your favorite comment or quote about the election, results or candidates?

She’s a professional matchmaker.

“I had one man that refused to continue to date a lady that voted for Trump. I have heard of countless conflicts with dates because of the election. It’s been so bad I’ve decided not to set up any more dates till next week,” Rose said Thursday.

What a shame. Donald Trump will be remembered as the man who decimated the Republican Party and gave us crooked Hillary as our next president.

Yesterday, one of my hens, Barbara Boxer, got trapped in one of those twelve inch plastic milk carton cubes that was sitting out. You know, the ones you buy at Target for storage purposes. Anyway, I discovered this in the afternoon when I went out in the humidity to check on the sweaty livestock. I heard frantic cackling. I saw curious interest. My chicken killer puppy Sydnee probed that black plastic upside-down container. Something moved inside the makeshift cage. Chapter II of “Chickens knowing how to get into trouble but not knowing how to get out of it”. Chapter LXVI of farmer playing god and reaching down from people heaven and lifting the cursed carton. A seeming miracle to the Godless chickens. A continuing wonder to the amused farmer. A constant reminder that farmer incompetence trumps barnyard stupidity. When will they learn. When will they ever learn.

Don’t know much about how poor Barbara Boxer got boxed in. Don’t know if that is the end of her woes, but probably not. I do know that she is not unique among chickens or other life when it comes to getting boxed in by her own actions and needing a seeming miracle to get out. I was there but if not, death was certain. The actual box of chicken fiasco opened me up to the hypothetical box of human humility each of us has experienced, escaped, and then been re-trapped within. Pick from life’s realities, any of life’s challenging realities, and you will be able to assemble a box from which you seemingly can not escape… without a miracle. Even though you always do. But one day your luck may run out. Someday your wits won’t be enough. Your family and friends may not be able to lift the increasingly heavier box off. What should you be doing if you are now or have been trapped in a box consisting of a job too consuming, a partner too demanding, finances too over whelming? I don’t know. But do something to escape the “box-on-box-off” cycle.

Having been within the walls and ceiling of the job-marriage-employment box, I have been trapped in more than once. I remember some one reaching down and saving me – once. I remember reaching up and saving myself – once. In both cases it was important for me to understand how I got boxed in. It was important to accept that I had the biggest hand in building the box that so imprisoned me. It was more important that I did not allow myself to let that same box to surround me again. I think I have been successful but boxes come in a great many deceptive forms these days and there is no end to the creative ways in which the crafty human can construct his own prison. Ok, so when one finally finds oneself trapped by the walls of self destruction, what are the steps to getting out?

First – what happened? Finances, affiliations, frustration will weigh heavily but unless you understand your circumstances you may make things worse by choosing quick action or slow denial. Find a sound sounding board. Put your worries on the shelf until they can properly and orderly be consumed. Maybe speculating the worst can help with putting your best foot forward. Perhaps saying some things out loud can advise you on your necessities. Never let a contrarian in the room – this brings doom. Get yourself a straight shooter to keep you on the path. Always put your concerns in an important/urgent grid which allows you to label each as important/urgent (!), important/not urgent, not important/not urgent, and NOT IMPORTANT/URGENT (!!!).

The blind pedestrian walks to work on the highway shoulder during rush hour because of the urgency of the job, not the importance his life. The beleaguered parent watches the world series on a school night because of the importance of escape, not because of urgency. The jobless breadwinner worries about the urgency of the family vacation, not the importance of getting a job. Walls are built by current urgency. They are knocked down with the acknowledgement and action on future importance. Let go of the immediate curiosity and get a hold future reality. Dream on but don’t fantasize. Unless you are still a child, you should not look outside yourself for rescue. Even though it can happen and inspire wonder, it should not be your fallback plan. But what do you do if your best isn’t good enough?

Think! You have to decide what you want before you can decide what you want to do. Balance your life. Be honest with yourself. Shed the things that don’t do you no good. Usually nagging thoughts should be addressed. When your unconscious comes knocking, let her in. She, your unconscious, will not harm you. That’s a start. You, your conscious you, has a bad reputation. Like a manipulative friend, his inspirations go awry. His motives are the kind that don’t do you no good. Use evidence, reason, logic, self-preservation if necessary but get out of the box on your own power. Get into the groove of self-reliance and intuition by acting responsibly, confidently, and slowly. That’s the ticket. Who will notice?

Everyone. Once you can not be easily influenced, lots of people will go away. Others will attack. Some will come towards you. Those are the ones you want in your inner circle. Losing friends isn’t always a bad thing. Being alone can sometimes be a good thing. A dedicated relationship is better than Facebook full of Friends. Unfriend those who have not proven to be friends. Reach out to those who are worthy to be friends. Never seek to go below or above the level of relationship that costs you self-esteem. Empower yourself using the means that work for you. Pray. Read. Converse. Listen. Meditate. Cry. Laugh. Find out who you are on your terms without having those terms dictated to you. So much of is out of power can be brought into your hands by simply reaching out. Getting out. Looking within.

Yesterday evening, Friday, we arrived back at Sawmyl Synders Farm and one dog greeted us, Syndee, the big Anatolian. No Sydnee, little Akbash. We unloaded the truck and entered the cabin I restrained Syndee from accosting my wife. I looked around. I called. I listened. It was dark. There was no Sydnee. I went back in and got one of my newly purchased mini-flashlights. No need. With the other lights that come on at night, easy to see a pure white puppy even on a perfectly black night. The pup just out of sight back near the garden and the coops. But she didn’t greet me. Something was awry. Something was dead.

Sydnee finally did it. She let her instincts and nature take over. And now the worst thing, the most nightmarish thing had happened. Laying in the grass, lifeless, an animal killed by its protector. An eight week old poulet in the jaws of a four month old guardian dog. The little chick was too small to survive its first day outside, having escaped its protective coop. The young puppy, too young to know the consequences of going too far with its animal antics. The master of both too inept to secure the chicken run against the escape or anticipate the horror of a confrontation with his beloved charges. The guilty must be dealt with.

A chicken killing dog must be stopped, no matter young or old, no matter if it is the first time. But first, what happened? I wanted to let my maturing poulets out of their 8X8 Coop III but the attached chicken run had unrepaired damage from the May floods and also the since departed billy goat. I inspected the run closely two days ago and made the repairs yesterday. The repairs consisted of holes torn in the chicken wire, separation of chicken wire from fence and fence panels, and movement of panels from their prior attached positions. I spent an hour and thought I was thorough. The poulets were released and reluctantly explored the outdoors, safely in the fully enclosed chicken run. I checked on them several times that afternoon. I put a waterer in the chicken yard to encourage their adventuring. All was well, until the night.

Just when you turn your back. Just when you let your guard down. Just when you think it is safe. The puppy is a guardian as much as it is predator. A friend can be trusted but he also must be watched. The needy must be given generosity but their desperation often exceeds their gratitude. Just as I have faith that my dogs will do their duty, I must also remember their nature. Just as I trust in my friends, I must remember that they are not family. Just as I want to give to the needy, neither do I want to be taken. Each encounter has a double edge. Each edge has the ability to heal as well as cut. Do not fall asleep expecting either health or harm. Do wake up to the possibilities of both from those you choose to allow in your circle.

On Monday, I discovered one of my Cornish Rocks with a string wrapped around one leg. That discarded eighteen inch piece of string belonged to a feed bag and attached to a length of wire which the unlucky chicken dragged around the otherwise sparsely furnished chicken coop. This unfortunate circumstance happened several days earlier. How do I know this? My little chicken, now Chicken Little, grew half the size of the other thirteen coop-mates. Chicken Little’s right legged extended straight out from her feathered frame due to dragging the mass. Even though the leg could be flexed, after removing the drag, CL could still not walk properly. The mishap injured her and crippled her. I pray she recovers but I doubt she will. So who is responsible for the crippled chicken?

In my earlier blogs I have besmirched poultry, really all birds, as “bird brains”. Knowing how to get into trouble but not knowing how to get out of it. Also, in another blog, I assumed that my chickens knew what they were doing when it came to birthing before finding a dead chick in the nest box. Who is responsible for the chickens? Who is responsible for the dangerous debris littering the coops and the grounds? Who makes assumptions? The chickens? No. Of course it is the clueless farmer. Yeah, the one over there with the big brain and bushel of assumptions. The one holding a crippled Cornish Rock in one hand and a dead Buff Orpington chick in the other. The one making judgements about those under his care and now facing judgement for his lack of care. Recommendation? Cleanup, shut-up, and be a farmer not a philosopher.

I stated last Sunday that I blogged for a hobby, blogged about how my farm animals knew how to get into trouble but never knew how to get out which closely paralleled my own conundrums. This chick-caught-on-a-string-and-wire episode sits as a good example. Months ago, I accepted an invitation to a gathering with pleasure. Weeks ago, I realized the reason for the invitation with apprehension. Days ago, I accepted my financial obligation with trepidation. Now, I lay here along side my crippled chick, tangled up in a situation, dragging an unwanted responsibility, and fearing that I will never be quite the fully functioning believer that I was before I got entangled.

Just as I am responsible for removing the hazards to my farm animal and rescuing them when they get into trouble, so also am I responsible for removing hazards to myself and for extricating my limbs from the tangles of life and the people in my life. Don’t say yes so easily to strangers, it is a steep slope. Question the details of what you are getting into before getting into it. If money or time is involved, gather enough information so that you can set a limit. Even though charity should be unbound generosity, in reality it can become unbound avarice. The meek can become predatory if you allow yourself to become prey. Your donation can become robbery if you never stop and say nay. It is better to stop giving in time than to stop giving altogether.

The promise made to the friend concerned when the depression could be lifted and the relationship resumed. The conditions were out of everyone’s’ hands. The moroseness allegedly surfaced when the rains drowned the old man’s hopes. His hopes floated on the notion that work and tasks brought satisfaction and happiness, but that was not all. Most of all the buildings, barns and beasts existed so approval could be had. With approval came fleeting happiness. Fleeting happiness brought relationship.

The rains continued to wash the dirty banks and erode the synthesized sanity. Normally this weather didn’t stay that long but she remained collapsed on this segment of country as if to prove a point or bring the fragile farmer to his senses and to admit that his outer show differed from his inner truth. That until he admitted to his lie, she would continue her onslaught, indifferent to his pain and fading hope.

Whiskey and women would not be the answer so the old wanna be farmer decided to give a kind of faux honesty a try. He would look the part of goatherd with shepherd crook, and blue chambray button down, and a Quaker’s broad brimmed straw hat. High muck boots and whiskers on the chin added to the appearance, but that was all it was. The answer was not there for him to find. He might as well abandon his behavior and get back to doing something. Even something that could not possibly gain him approval.

He finally found it – happiness! Henry Peck walked on a cloud. Every day was sunny. Every problem was a challenge. Every dull obstacle was a bright diamond. Sheena balanced Henry’s paranoia with her present moment living. Henry countered Sheena’s reckless spontaneity with his past life regression. It was a match made in – another world. What could possibly come into question when you finally find the answer?

They were moving in together. Henry would sell his big suburban house, the one he raised his family in, and move to the little house on the left on Pete Street. The first order of business was to get rid of stuff. There was a lot of stuff, a lot of memories, not all bad. Actually, there were few memories that made him feel bad. There were mostly good memories that made him feel bad. He felt loss with latter.

The only thing to do was to get rid of everything. In Henry terms this meant putting everything from family albums to light bulbs in storage. He stopped for long periods in his packing and thought about the past as he came across mementos. These character came alive as the dusty objects touched reached up and touched him with memories…

Mama Mia’s Lousy Words

Henry picked up a shoe box. It was full of letters from his mother. He re-read these letters with amazement. Even though English was her second language, her written word were perfect and her gentle script communicated her genuine love. Her spoken English, however and for whatever reason, was memorable.

At Thanksgiving, she would call for a toast. She stood gave a similar speech every year. Her speech always ended with the same words. Mama said, “Me rather be with all of you than with the best people in the world”.

Mom’s language was her own sort of creole, made up of two languages mixed together and, when spoken, gave unpredictable results, using a word with the best guess but wrong meaning. Henry remembered one time she was consoling a young pregnant family member on the realities of natural child birth.

Mama said, “For each my children was born at home with no drugs because it happened so fast. I screamed and I screamed…the neighbors could hear. And that was only at the conception.”

Christmas was always another story or rather the same story at the Peck house. All the uncles and their families came to Henry’s parents house: Filet of Moose Face. Every one would eat their fill and the uncles would overfill their drinks. By the dessert time they were plowed. The dessert, jellied moose nose, was so prized the uncles pulled their guns to get a single munch of moose goo.

Gun fire erupted and the police showed up. All the neighbors stood in their doorways observing in disbelief the annual Christmas spectacle (not to mention the occasions of child birth and Thanksgiving). Henry’s father and his uncles were paraded out each wearing a kind family man’s uniform: pleated and cuffed sharkskin slacks, suspenders, no shirt, and a hat, either pork-pie or fedora.

When the police asked Mama for a statement about the rumpus, through her tears she said, “Mi Familia become wise guys because a nostril.”

Big Al’s Blousy World

In another box, Henry found some accounting ledges, tax statements, and a business card: Fashion World Enterprises. Oh yeah, Henry’s first attempt to go out on his own. A partnership with the irrepressible Big Al.

Big Al always answered the query, “How are you?”, with Perfect! Whenever he was going out catting around, he would first tell his wife he was with Henry. The next day he would contact Henry and let him know that he was with Henry that late night. Henry was always his cover.

Big Al did as he pleased. When Henry met with him on matters of their partnership, Fashion World Enterprise, Big Al usually dictated their agreement. When discussing the business card, Big Al suggested adding the slogan “We’re into women’s blouses”. This is one time Henry prevailed. The company slogan became, “We’re Tops – And More!”. But as a general rule, Big Al said “Agreement is just for show”.

Little Nick’s Mouse that Whirled

Nixon is listening…what channel?

You’re not paranoid if people are really out to get you.

Let’s rob a bank.

Diamond’s aren’t forever.

Where’s Diamond.

Is that her whore name.

Recovery

Henry and his buddy, Big Al, would sell women’s apparel in beauty shops. Why not? Women with money go to the hair dresser every week. Women cannot resist new clothes. Women won’t pass up a bargain. Research, done! What should we call this enterprise? Fashion World, done! What would be our slogan? We’re Into Women’s Blouses! No. We’re Tops & More! That’s the ticket even though we were only into women’s tops.

Fashion World was great idea. The guys bought seconds from shady dealer, after paying a franchise fee, and sold them on a consignment basis. The two erstwhile entrepreneurs had a piece of paper that sealed the deal with the supplier and a handshake agreement with the beauty shops to secure there inestimable future income. Things were looking up until…

Sometimes start-ups are slow to show profit before they stop altogether. In some stores, there were marginal sales and shop owners paid agreed remuneration. In other stores, there were significant thefts and the shop owners wouldn’t pay for the loss. It was what happened with the supplier’s store that cost Fashion World the most. The franchiser started to send too many of the worst sellers too often, and none of the best sellers at all. Finally, all contact was lost. Henry and Big Al’s business was hung out to dry, their blouses twisting in the wind.

Always learning the hard way, if they learned anything at all, the dynamic duffuses sought to sink more money into this ship by borrowing and finding a new supplier. The kind of money they needed to finance the risk they propositioned wouldn’t come from a bank. It could only come from one other place.

They started seriously talking with small loans outfits. They began jokingly discussing with each other robbing a bank. There talks sounded like they had merit – on a wiretap. One of their prospective financiers was mobbed up and Fashion World had stuck its big toe into a whole new world.